


howl

by coriandrumsativum



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: F/M, Fuck Or Die, i hope we all know that, if you're not fully lucid you can't give consent, inherently dub-con even though both parties are enthusiastic participants
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-19
Updated: 2018-02-19
Packaged: 2019-03-21 03:07:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,629
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13731837
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coriandrumsativum/pseuds/coriandrumsativum
Summary: Solo's sick, and Gaby's had enough of waiting around.





	howl

**Author's Note:**

> sex pollen? magic? a/b/o? idk my dudes i don't do plot only s m u t

He's so hot, he’s— _God,_ he can’t—

He turns his head, hoping to find the pillow cooler on that side, but it isn't, and he groans. He's burning, his veins the wicks that draw the fuel, the fever the fire that consumes him. 

Maybe the pillow is cooler on the other side.

“Solo,” he hears, the sound warped and lagging. 

Maybe the—

The hand on his forehead is like a shock of cool water, cutting through the sweat and the smothering heat. _“Solo.”_

He groans again, half a sob, like his lungs are trying to escape, and presses up against the cold. It's delicious, it's bliss, it's better than anything he can remember and he _wants,_ he wants it so desperately.

“What can I do?” Gaby asks, tight and concerned even as her fingers comb so soothingly through his hair. “Napoleon, what can I _do?”_

“Leave,” he croaks. “Get out, stay away. I won't—” The heat surges again, and it _hurts,_ it hurts but he's sluggish and heavy and his mind is dizzying surreality wrapped around a single burning need. 

Maybe the pillow will be cooler on the other side.

*

Gaby watches over him for a night and two days, watches him toss and turn and sweat and moan until the sheets tangled around him are soaked through and he’s breathing in harsh, wheezing gasps, and still the fever shows no sign of breaking.

She sits on the edge of the bed and wipes his face with cold water, the cloth so full that rivulets run across his forehead and down the bridge of his nose, drip from the ridge of his brow onto the curve of the cheek below, slip past his jawline and soak into the pillow. 

It has no effect.

No matter how cold the water, how fresh the ice, nothing seems able to bring his temperature down or offer any relief. Only her skin against his garners a response, but he can't hide the way his eyes go dark and his breath hitches with something other than surprise. 

He'd promised he wouldn't use her this way, and she won't make it harder for him than it already is. But the waiting is starting to wear on her, and Solo’s only getting sicker, and no matter what anyone says, this _will_ kill him if he gets too weak and confused to swallow the sips of water she slips between his lips. 

‘Waiting it out’ is becoming less of a viable option with each passing hour. 

Solo rolls over, putting his back to her, and whimpers as the sheet drags across his hip. 

*

By the morning of the third day, she’s had enough. They can’t wait this out, and they _won’t_ — Solo had made a promise her, but she hadn’t promised anything in return. She was up with him all night, holding him up by the shoulders as he hung off the edge of the bed and dry heaved into a garbage bin, lips dry and split and eyes too bright, panting and groaning at the nausea and the unrelenting heat. She doesn’t need a thermometer to know it’s gotten dangerous, that he can’t sustain this. Even through the barrier of a towel her touch had wrung a pitiful keen, pain and need without the relief of skin on skin, and damn it all, she is not leaving him to this a second longer. 

He’s still, now, but she knows better than to think it’s an improvement. His eyes are half-lidded and vacant, staring at the ceiling as he mutters silent shapes with bleeding lips: whatever he’s seeing isn’t there, and whatever’s there he isn’t seeing. He’s tangled in the sheets again but doesn’t seem to care, sprawled out on his back with damp and wrinkled fabric twisted around his hips and woven through his legs so that one dangles limply off the edge of the mattress, foot nearly brushing the rough carpet.

He doesn’t react as she pulls off her shirt and trousers and leaves them in a pile on the floor. He doesn’t blink as she strips off her bra and steps out of her underwear and undoes her messy braid to wrap her hair into a loose bun instead. He doesn’t flinch as she lifts the bowl of water from the bedside table and pours it over her head and _scheiße_ , it’s cold, but it’s what he needs and she’s going to give it to him.

He only looks at her when she climbs onto the bed next to him, and suddenly he’s there in his eyes again, drained almost lifeless but there.

“Gaby,” he murmurs, and she recognizes the last vestiges of hesitation, layered over thickly with hopelessness and surrender.

“Come here,” she whispers, and lowers herself onto the mattress next to him, arms open in invitation. He’s against her in a moment, chest to chest, clinging to her like she’s the only salvation he’s ever found, and in this case, maybe she is. There’s a leg slung over her thighs, arms wrapped around her and hands flat against her back, his face tucked into the crook of her neck. The heat of his skin is as shocking on hers as the cold water must be on his, and he groans with relief. It’s a shaky, startled sound, and she hates that it _affects_ her, but her shame must be so small compared to his, so short, so fleeting. It’s a price she’s more than willing to pay.

“Stop me,” he slurs against her neck. “Gaby, stop me.”

She tangles her fingers in his hair, and he almost sobs. “No.” She strokes the side of his face, presses the backs of her fingers against his neck, and starts rubbing up and down his arm, his back, anything she can reach like this. It didn’t work when it was just water, but now it’s her, and it does. “You need this. It’s okay to want it, too.”

“You don’t,” he murmurs, even as he rolls his head to fit his face between her breasts. “You can’t. This isn’t… This isn’t me. I wouldn’t…” he mouths at the skin over her sternum, clumsy open-mouthed kisses trailing down her stomach, and her hands are back in his hair and gripping hard. 

“If I didn’t want this,” she says, fighting to keep her voice steady despite the heat swelling between her legs, “I wouldn’t have come.”

“You haven’t,” he says against the skin just below her navel, and his hands have found her waist as he draws himself further down the length of her body. “You… Gaby, if you want me to stop you have to—” His breath is hot against her mound, and she _throbs._

“Don’t stop,” she whispers.

His tongue parts her lips, and she jerks forward with a gasp as he moans as well, head held fast by white-knuckled fingers twined in dark, sweaty hair.

“I need,” he gasps, “I have to…”

“Go ahead,” she says breathlessly, and moves one leg back behind her to give him room.

He groans and noses at the hood of her clit, which she can feel getting harder, getting hotter, swelling larger, not just at the tip but aching all the way around her as Solo slips his tongue inside and gets to work, licking and sucking and kissing like she’s the only water he can take.

One hand stays anchored at the taper of waist against the mattress, but the other is restless, wandering, roaming up over her back, down to her waist, over the swell of her ass, around to stroke the crease between thigh and groin and is this how he’s felt the past three days, so hard it hurts, blood thundering in his veins and only adding to the pain, knowing that it’s wrong, that he shouldn’t want, but unable to stop?

He’s panting against her, breath coming in quick, desperate hitches as he licks and licks and licks, the heat of his mouth and his tongue doing ruinous things to her as she holds his head in place and jerks her hips against him, rutting against his face, chest tightening unbearably and trying to get his tongue deeper, his breath hotter, the suction harder, the friction rougher, anything, _anything_ —

“Don’t—you—dare—stop—” she grunts, each word punctuated by a thrust, and she can’t believe she’s doing this, can’t believe she isn’t stopping herself, but God, whatever’s in him is infectious because she’s sure she will absolutely die if she doesn’t—get—to finish—

He grabs her ass with both hands and pulls her against him, and she knows that somehow he’s just as close as she is, just as desperate, and then his lips are sealed over her glans and he’s tonguing the head and _sucking_ and she's—

She comes with a strangled yell, hoarse and broken, hunched over and rigid but he doesn’t let go, doesn’t let up, and even as her first orgasm is crashing through her there’s another building behind it, and it hurts it hurts it hurts _it hurts_ then ohhhhhh _hhhhhhhh._ The waves roll through her in counterpoint to one another until it’s just a continuous crest of pleasure like she’s only ever dreamed of, and he’s released her clit but he’s still down there, still lapping up the slickness that’s practically dripping out of her, still gasping and making small, pitiful noises.

“Are you okay?” she manages to ask once she can think clearly again, and relaxes her still-shaking hands from their grip on his head. “Did you finish?”

The whimpering groan is answer enough, and he pulls away to rest his forehead against her hip, breathing hard.

She sighs, and pets his hair in apology. “Give me a minute, then, and we’ll try it again.”

**Author's Note:**

> listen i didn’t mean for this to end in more eating out but i guess solo just really loves it, okay?
> 
> in other news someone better come stop me from writing more porn bc i have work to do


End file.
